


A Clash of Cultures

by Melkoring



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:18:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melkoring/pseuds/Melkoring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lafayette meets Mulligan for the first time and greets him with the usual French kisses. Hercules has an identity crisis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Clash of Cultures

**Author's Note:**

> possibly part one of a few? i have a couple more scenes planned, but it's up to fate/how lazy i am if i write them or not... enjoy y'all
> 
> come yell headcanons at me over at queerglorfindel on tumblr
> 
> (also im british and therefore know absolutely fuck all about american history aside from what ive learnt through the medium of song. any and all inaccuracies (and there will most likely be inaccuracies lurking somewhere) can be attributed to that.)

Mulligan remembered Laurens’ house to be a plethora of paper, essay upon essay scattered across any wooden surface available (and little were, at this point), and the threat of quills thought long-lost jabbing him from behind every time he sat in an arm chair. Laurens would lead him from the doorway through a maze of leather bound tomes, and each time Mulligan visited, the paper labyrinth seemed to evolve another twist or turn or never ending hall. There was a sort of musk about it, like it was more of a library than a house, but Laurens’ home all the same, still with that warm sense of self that occurs when a singular room becomes so significantly ingrained in someone’s life.

Essays against slavery weren’t going to write themselves.

He’d been met with a rushed, “Mulligan! There’s someone I want you to meet.” There was no time for him to return the greeting, Laurens’ hand already around his wrist, tugging him over the threshold.

The curtains were never closed and Mulligan was hit with a blast of light as Laurens led him around a corner. He was half expecting to be met with the Minotaur in this labyrinth, instead of the figure that stood in front of Laurens’ window, tiny particles hovering in weightless stasis like snowflakes dancing around his shoulders, and his face obscured with a halo of light shining behind him.

The face that began to form in front of him, after he had blinked away the mish-mash of colours and shapes that the light was blinding him with, was grinning. Handsome and hard edged, at least with his dark hair restrained with a ribbon at the nape of his neck. All silk cravats and golden buttons, stark against a blue velvet coat.

Was this what he had been called for? Laurens had a knack for networking, and somehow Mulligan was always dragged in tow. He’d left some busty butcher’s daughter (or was it her cousin? Or had that been last week?) in his bed, and much as he loved Laurens, there were some matters of a greater importance that needed to be dealt with than extending his social circle.

When Mulligan glanced over at Laurens, he was grinning. A good sign, if any.

“Hercules Mulligan -” Laurens was the tie that held them together, one hand clamped firmly on the man’s shoulder and the other around Mulligan’s neck, “- I want you to meet  Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier. The Marquis de Lafayette”

“That’s quite a mouthful,” Mulligan said, extending his hand. “No middle names to add?”

“Call me Lafayette.” If the name hadn’t been enough of a giveaway, his accent - along with his tenuous grasp of the English language - was.

Laurens gave his shoulder a fond clap. “So I learnt your full name for nothing?”

“I fear so, mon ami.” He took Mulligan’s hand, eyes bright, and shook it fervently. “Laurens has told me much.”

“Hello,” would have been the word Mulligan would have chosen in response, but Laurens had already stepped out from between them and Lafayette’s hands were firm on his shoulders. He kissed him once on each cheek and then pulled away, smiling as though he’d just been given the news that they had won against the British without the need for any further bloodshed.

Mulligan blinked. He raised a hand to his cheek, touching where a spot of warmth was fading quickly.

“Lafayette has come to assist Washington with the Continental Congress,” Laurens explained, bringing Lafayette under his arm, as though he were showing him off to Mulligan, a prized horse at a country show. Mulligan swallowed, watching a patch of Lafayette’s freckles on his neck get covered by Laurens’ sleeve.

Lafayette shushed him with a smile still on his face, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah, non, non, mon ami. I do not come to teach, I come to learn.”

Laurens caught Mulligan’s eye, a feat that took far more of Laurens’ effort than it normally did. He’d shifted from his playfully disgruntled manner, fingers loose and a smile easy, to clenched fists at his side, vertical and stiff, as if he were a kouros plucked straight from the Archaic era, and the pattern in Laurens’ carpet had never been so interesting before.

Hercules Mulligan was the skirt chaser of the back streets, the cat who pawed at all the dress hems of any daughter, sister, barmaid and laundry maid there was available. Men did not kiss him, they envied him, occasionally feared him, and most often gave him the respect of a Lord, let alone a tailor’s apprentice.

Sure, Mulligan was handsome and he knew it. It was hard not to know when he had a different girl warming his bed every other week. Was it really unreasonable for this man to kiss him on first sight? And this fellow… this Frenchman was hardly ugly. If he had to stretch, Mulligan would probably say he was the very opposite of ‘ugly’, in fact.

No, Mulligan decided. It was not unreasonable to kiss him upon meeting him. Was it unreasonable for him to enjoy it? To replay the moment his lips had touched both of his cheeks over and over again instead of actually focussing on whatever it was that the man was actually trying to say?

Perhaps a little.

Laurens was staring at him. He quirked an eyebrow, smile still plastered on his face, for just a second while Lafayette was distracted.

Mulligan blinked again. “Yes,” he said, not sure which man he was addressing. “Sorry. What was the question?”

“How long have you and John -”

“John and I?” Mulligan barked. His laughter was awkward, unrestrained. “No, you misunderstand, my friend. John and I are nothing more than friends. I like women. I’m very into women. I have one at home in my bed currently. I should leave soon. To return to her. For intercourse.”

“… known each other,” Lafayette finished.

Mulligan could feel himself sweating, his heart in his throat. The silence was thick and heavy, but not so much as the bewildered stare coming from Laurens, freezing him in place.

He cleared his throat. “It was lovely meeting you, Lafayette. I think I should leave. I like women.”

Laurens cleared his throat. There was an understanding in his smile that had Lafayette quirking an eyebrow up at Mulligan’s disappearing form, coat tails waving them goodbye in the blast of wind that swept through Laurens’ front room as the door was thrown open and Hercules Mulligan made his escape.

“Was it something I said? Did I perhaps mistake one word for another?”

Laurens waved him off. “No, no, he’s just a little odd like that.” There was that laugh again. “You’ve nothing to worry about. He’ll understand himself in time.”


End file.
